


Colour

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Soulmate AU, You can see in colour when you meet your soulmate, fic prompt, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23359837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: “John,” Harry sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with you, alright? Now can you cut out your teenage angst bullshit? You’ll meet your soulmate. Just wait.”And John had waited. He’d waited for years. Two tours of Afghanistan and a bullet to the shoulder later, John had managed to reach the age of 36 without ever meeting his soulmate. Everything was still grey.Until he finds a bleeding man in the park one day.—Based on the prompt from MattRe: “Can I request a soulmate au where they understand that they are soulmates right away?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 319





	1. Russell Square

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MattRe](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=MattRe).



> Hi! This fic is dedicated to MattRe, and is based off a prompt from them too. 
> 
> If you feel like leaving kudos or a comment, please do! They do wondrous things for my ego.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

“Would you actually just fuck off?” The man grunted, rolling his ripped shirt sleeve up to inspect a long, sweeping graze across his elbow. “I don’t need your help.”

John took a step backwards and raised his hands in surrender, blinking.

Blood trickled from the man’s hairline, down his forehead, and gathered in his eyebrow. From there, the blood seeped down the rest of his face. His nose bled, from both his nostrils and a sharp cut across the ridge of his nose. 

John knew the cuts were superficial. 

“Let me inspect your head,” John said, somewhat exasperatedly.

“What’s wrong with my head?” The man asked, not looking up from his elbow. 

He was a lanky man, well dressed, with a thicket of curly hair which glinted in the sunlight. Some of his hair was matted owing to the blood, and his trousers were ripped across his knee.

John wasn’t sure whether he’d simply fallen over, or whether he’d been mugged. He’d found the man sat on a park bench in Russell Square.

“Well, it’s bleeding, for a start,” John replied, half amused, half concerned. “Quite badly.”

John knew it was blood, this time. Once he’d almost given himself a heart attack when his sister, Harry, had fallen off a ladder and spilt paint all over herself. John had run out into the garden at the beckon of Harry’s scream to find her sprawled on the ground coated in a thick liquid that was the exact same shade of blood. It had taken Harry a long time to calm John down.

Because for John, the red paint Harry had been using was identical to that of red blood. It was the same shade of grey. It was, at first glance, the same thickness as blood too. 

Because John saw everything in some shade of grey, the same way everyone saw everything in some shade of grey until they met their soulmate. Soulmates meant colour. Soulmates meant seeing the world more clearly. 

John had been told that meeting your soulmate was incomparable to anything. It was supposed to be blinding, all consuming. 

“You know when you have a really good sneeze and it kinda feels like you’ve had an orgasm?” Harry asked when John had broached her on the subject after school one day. Harry had met her soulmate, Clara, when they both began working in a local computer shop.

John shook his head. “No.”

“Well, it’s sort of like that. It’s like you’re having an orgasm, but you’re not really. Does that make any sense?”

“No.”

Harry sighed. 

“Just you wait.”

John had sighed and scratched his forehead.

“But what if I don’t?” He asked, looking down. “What if I’m one of those people who never meets their soulmate?”

Harry frowned. 

“Why would you be?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, picking at the rugby ball in his hands. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“John,” Harry sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with you, alright? Now can you cut out your teenage angst bullshit? You’ll meet your soulmate. Just wait.”

And John had waited. He’d waited for years. Two tours of Afghanistan and a bullet to the shoulder later, John had managed to reach the age of 36 without ever meeting his soulmate. Everything was still grey, but John was well-accustomed to identifying blood without colour now.

He had long come to the conclusion that he would never meet his soulmate.

He was used to seeing the world in grey.

“Let me get you an ice pack, at least,” John sighed. He rubbed his forehead, completely exasperated. “You could have a concussion. You really ought to go to a hospital.”

The man didn’t turn his focus from his graze, and winced as he poked it.

“It’s all superficial,” the man grumbled. “I just need to clean this graze. As soon as I’ve done that I’ll be good as new.”

John fought hard not to roll his eyes. He closed them instead, his fists balling at his side.

“Sir,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let me clean the wound.”

To John’s great surprise the man began laughing.

“Sir?” The man chuckled. “I’m much younger than you. And sir is so old-fashioned.” He turned his attention away from his graze and looked up at the man who was so desperately trying to help him. “Are you trying to get used to not being in… oh.” 

He opened his mouth to make what John could only assume would be a derivative comment, but it got lost somewhere along the way.

The man’s voice faltered, his eyes softened. Where his brows were once furrowed they were now raised, something akin to wonder etched across his face. 

He stared up at John, and John found himself staring back.

“That’s…” he began. “Impossible. You’re…”

Grey.

“Are you-“

No. No, not grey.

“Is that –“

Blue.

“That’s definitely…”

“But that would mean…”

“It couldn’t be.”

“Colour.”

John ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head towards the sky for a breath of fresh air as a weight pressed down on his shoulders. He felt like his heart was trying to claw its way out of his throat. His chest hurt. Colours were exploding across his vision like paint thrown at a white wall.

“Hey.”

The man was standing. Two strong hands gripped John’s arms and tugged him back down to Earth. 

John stared at him, eyes blown wide. 

“Look at me,” the man said, his rich, baritone voice anchoring John in the floodwaters of his thoughts. “It’s completely normal. This. Your brain is in overload. You’ve only seen grey for what, 34, 35 years? And now…” the man’s voice drifted. “Colour.”

John nodded dumbly. 

“Colour.”

The man nodded. He didn’t let go of John’s arms.

“Everyone always talks about how perfect meeting their soulmate is and how clear the world becomes. Very few will admit the pounding headache as new chemicals flood the brain. They seek to romanticise an event which is simply a universal, scientific truth. People have been known to faint, and of course there’s the odd seizure but I don’t think you’re at risk of that. What’s your name?” The man asked.

It caught John completely off guard. 

His mouth was dry. He felt like he was choking on sawdust, but the man with dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes held onto him tightly. 

So tightly.

“John,” he found himself saying. “John Watson.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to acclimatise them to the colour. 

The man nodded and finally let go. He took a step backwards and held out his hand.

John shook it cautiously.

“Nice to meet you, John Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock hesitated. They were still shaking hands. He quickly retracted it. John could see that he was shaking.

They stood a few feet apart from one another, now, but it felt like the world was between them. John felt that he could almost see the curvature of the Earth for how distant Sherlock appeared and how remote they both were. It was as though suddenly all of London and the UK had vanished. There were no cars, no discernible noise which could bring John out of that moment.

The colour was blinding. The sky was a deep, periwinkle blue and the trees surrounding the park were a vibrant green. Puddles littering the grey pavement glinted in the sunlight and John could see everything. He smiled, completely in awe of the situation.

“Urm, should we exchange phone numbers or something?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, and John nodded quickly, falling out of his trance. 

Sherlock, after all, would form his own opinions. Neither of them would be able to deny that they were soulmates, but there was always a possibility Sherlock would turn his nose up at the concept. It had been known to happen to other people John knew, where one decided they weren’t in the right place to begin that stage of their life or they were simply scared. 

They’d just met, but John knew there was nothing stopping Sherlock from running. And judging by Sherlock’s injuries, it seemed likely.

But John had been waiting for so long.

“Probably, yeah.”

Sherlock pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and John mimicked him. They exchanged numbers swiftly, and John smiled when he noticed that throughout their interaction Sherlock had developed a deep crimson blush.

“So, urm…” he began, scratching the back of his head, but John interrupted.

“You really need to get that cut checked,” he said. “Please. I know what I’m talking about, I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. Army doctor. Well, you were. You’re still a doctor, just not army. Invalided. You’re used to a degree of violent injuries.” He tripped over his words, blushing furiously. 

John’s eyes widened as Sherlock spoke. “How did you…”

“I don’t have time to go into it now,” Sherlock said, which only furthered John’s total confusion. “But this is fine.” He pointed to his head. “If it’s not better by tomorrow I’ll consult you.”

John’s stomach dropped.

“You’re not going, are you?”

“Why should I stay here?” Sherlock asked, looking down at his phone.

“Well, we have a lot to talk about. Like the fact that we’re soulmates?”

“Meaning that we’ve got all the time in the world to talk matters over. For now, however, I have more pressing engagements.”

John frowned. Sherlock wasn’t about to run away on him. No way. He’d been waiting far, far too long. 

“No you don’t,” he said, to which Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking up from his phone.

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t have any pressing engagements,” John said, folding his arms across his chest. “You were sitting alone, in this park, bleeding from about ten different places. I mean, you still are bleeding, but as your soulmate I have to insist that you don’t have any pressing engagements anymore. What you need to do, however, is either go to the hospital or allow me to attend to your injuries.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Now, I can escort you to A&E or you can come with me to the nearest first aid kit, wherever that may be.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again and clenched his jaw.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” he said eventually, surveying John uncertainly. “Awfully.”

John shrugged.

“Which is it going to be, Holmes?” He asked.

Sherlock smiled slightly.

“Using my surname to deflect from the fact that we’re soulmates and to listen to you in a more formal capacity? Smart. I live on this street, just beside the British Museum. I have a first aid kit there.”

John nodded.

“Lead the way.”

And Sherlock did.


	2. Montague Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo. I hope this chapter note finds you well :)
> 
> Thanks for reading this far!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

Sherlock’s flat was small tightly packed. He shared the space with five other blokes. One was a university student, two worked on Fleet Street, and another was interning at the British Museum. The fifth was a sex worker but Sherlock wasn’t supposed to know that, so he saw no need in relaying the information onto John. After all, he’d only picked up on it by identifying the consistently changing cologne lingering around them. Detective though he was, Sherlock didn’t consider himself a snitch.

John drank in all the colours as he entered the flat, from the white front of the terraced house to the vile orange wallpaper with massive purple flowers scattered across it, which ran up the staircase. Sherlock chuckled.

“I didn’t realise how ghastly that wallpaper is,” he said, running his hand along it. “I suppose my landlord hadn’t met his soulmate when he decorated.”

John smiled. “That, or the person who created the wallpaper hadn’t met their soulmate.”

“Which begs the question of how they attained that job in the first place,” Sherlock hummed. He took the stairs two at a time, and John followed him, feeling considerably more relaxed being in Sherlock’s company.

When he’d found Sherlock on the park bench, he’d been wandering around aimlessly, clutching his walking stick. He’d done nothing with his day except wander, too exhausted to do much else. He had only left the flat that morning to get his fill of what limited fresh air London could off him. Naturally, had had gravitated towards the areas of trees in amongst the terraced houses; the quiet suburbs of university-owned homes which doubled as offices had offered a respite from the chaotic stretch of the Euston road.

John been up for most of the night. Every time he closed his eyes remnants of Afghanistan exploded across his dreams and the shrapnel tore into his slumber. He’d woken sweaty, shivering, and completely on edge for fear he’d climb out of bed and step on an explosive.

He was pleasantly surprised at how the day had turned around.

All of Sherlock’s belongings were in boxes, scattered across the landing and the staircase. His flatmate’s doors were all closed, with locks on the door.

“Moving?” John asked, side-stepping past a large cardboard box blocking the doorway into Sherlock’s bedroom. 

“Something like that,” Sherlock replied, hurrying into the room and kicking some loose belongings under the bed. “First aid kit is in the kitchen. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Sherlock rushed out of the room and John chuckled quietly, looking around.

It was a small, squashed room. The bookshelf was empty, as was the wardrobe of which the doors were wide open. John shifted some boxes away from the bed so that there would be enough room for Sherlock to sit and for John to attend the wounds, then began exploring.

He estimated that Sherlock was late twenties, if not early thirties. Sherlock’s bed was a mess, and the radiator on full blast. John smiled. It was nice to see a space that was completely lived in. He had grown so used to his pokey flat, a place where he slept, where he ate, where he simply existed, that he had completely forgotten that people were supposed to enjoy where they lived.

A home was supposed to be a place of relaxation; a home was supposed to be a place where a person was able to be their complete self with no hindrance.

For the longest time John felt that he was walking on egg shells.

He hoped that now, with his soulmate, he had finally found that peace.

Sherlock reappeared in the room, clutching a small green box with ‘First Aid’ stamped across it in large white letters.

“I’m not sure what’s in there,” Sherlock said.

“A flat of six blokes? I can imagine there’s no end of injury,” John chuckled, but Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

“No, I mean, it’s not mine,” he said, handing it over to John. 

John sighed and accepted it.

“Is that why you’re moving out, then?” He asked. “Have your flatmates all had enough of you stealing their things?”

The tiniest smirk flashed across Sherlock’s face. John barely had time to register it before it was gone. He wasn’t sure why, but for a brief moment he felt as though Sherlock was x-raying him; like Sherlock had just laid his hands upon the book of John Watson and turned the first page. It was unnerving.

“Come and sit on the bed,” John said. “I’ll clean up that graze too, while I’m at it.”

Sherlock crossed over to him, but as soon as he bent to sit down the front doorbell rang out through the flat.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said, before he rushed off downstairs to answer the door. 

John sighed quietly. The man was a complete anomaly. 

For a start, John hadn’t managed to establish how Sherlock had attained his injuries. But the one thing which was really preying on John’s mind was the fact that, despite living less than 30 seconds from Russell Square, Sherlock had opted for a park bench to sit at to tend to his injuries.

Had Sherlock known John would walk by? Had Sherlock known about John at all? Was it fate, or was there something more sinister at play?

John could make head nor tail of it. 

“Ah, Mike,” John heard Sherlock from the front door. “You’re late. Late night, was it?”

“You know it was.” A voice floated up to Sherlock’s bedroom, and John stilled. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?” 

He knew that voice.

“Nothing of consequence.” Sherlock replied airily. “Tripped over while chasing a suspect. Quite spectacularly, I might add, but not a very interesting case.” 

“Right…” the voice sounded uncertain. “Any luck on the flatmate front?”

“No. Unsurprising, though, really. Who’d want me for a flatmate?” 

The man chuckled.

“You’ll find someone. Mrs Hudson still okay for you to move in tomorrow?”

“As far as I’ve been told,” Sherlock replied. 

“Alright, then. I’ll give you a hand with these boxes, shall I?”

Curiosity got the better of John and he made his way to the top of the staircase. At the base of it stood Sherlock, and to his enormous surprise, fellow alumni of St Bart’s Hospital Mike Stamford hovered in the doorway. 

“Mike?” John huffed a laugh. “Jesus…”

He bounced down the stairs and held out his hand for Mike to shake. Mike shook it vigorously, utterly bewildered but grinning broadly.

“John Watson?” Mike laughed. “Blimey… What’re you doing here? Last I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

John paused. A dull pain blossomed through his shoulder.

“I got shot.” 

Mike’s smile faltered. 

“Oh. I’m sorry…”

“You weren’t to know,” John replied, brushing it off. “How’re you keeping, anyway?”

—

Sherlock stood on the outskirts of the conversation, a deep frown sinking into his face. He looked between John and Mike, eyes narrowed, surveying them both closely.

He couldn’t believe he’d stumbled into his soulmate at the park, only for him to be a mutual friend. The normality of it made him want to puke. He may as well have met John at a wedding, it equated to the same level of mundaneness. 

“So, you two know each other then?” He asked haughtily, interrupting the conversation with his arms folded across his chest.

John looked up at him.

“God, sorry, Sherlock. Yeah, Mike and I attended Bart’s together.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied. 

John tilted his head to the side.

“Sorry, how do you know?” He asked, apparently confused. “Did you tell Mike I was here or something?”

Mike chuckled.

“Haven’t shown him the trick, then?” He asked, but John interrupted him.

“Sorry, trick?” He asked. “What trick?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mike could do nothing more but grin. 

“I know that you attended Bart’s together because it was the only logical place you would have both met, given your links to medicine,” Sherlock said. “Mike offered your full name, indicating that you were so far at the back of his mind that you now warrant the surname. It could be that another John has entered Mike’s life, but given the surprise meeting and the immediate association of your full name it’s more likely a time issue. Mike is unconsciously reminding himself that he knows you.”

John’s eyes widened.

Sherlock went on.

“Now, as to Bart’s… Mike heard that you were in Afghanistan. You didn’t tell him yourself, meaning that someone had mentioned it to Mike who knew both of you well. Someone who each of you would have perhaps seen on a regular basis, despite not seeing each other. Mike focuses on developing medicine. John, you followed the strictly physical route. It is likely, then, that you shared at least one module together before going your separate ways into your respective fields. The hospital which offers such a module to combine both courses is Bart’s.”

John stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock frowned at him.

“What?” He asked.

“That…” John shook his head in total disbelief. “That was incredible. Bloody hell.” 

Sherlock seemed surprised.

“Really?” He asked, and John nodded quickly.

“Oh god, yes. That was insane.” 

Sherlock stole a bewildered glance at Mike, who shrugged his own confusion. 

Sherlock supposed that, really, his soulmate ought to enjoy his deductions. They were a solid part of his work, and by extension is personality. When John had approached him, Sherlock had known that he wouldn’t back down. That he was acclimatised to violence. That he was a man born to help. Sherlock had known right from the off that there was very little that could deter this man.

He hadn’t suspected that when he deigned to look up at the man, that colour would suddenly rupture his thoughts and render him temporarily blinded by the brightness of the world.   
But now, as he stood at his front door, watching his soulmate’s total, unadulterated awe and surprise at possibly the most simplistic deduction Sherlock had ever given, Sherlock knew that John was definitely the man for him. 

Sherlock smiled slightly. 

“Oh, one other thing,” he said, turning to Mike. As he spoke a smile broke out across his face. “John is my soulmate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt a bit stunted writing this chapter for some reason, though I have no idea why.
> 
> But thank you for reading this far! It means a LOT! If you feel like leaving a comment, please do :) 
> 
> The next chapter will be up on Tuesday bc my uni is mean and demanding my full attention tomorrow (but hypocritical seeing as they abandoned us for six weeks for strikes but, you know, go off). 
> 
> Once again, though, I am currently taking fic requests :) if you have a fic suggestion, please feel free to leave a comment and I’ll do my best to get it done.
> 
> Stay safe!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x


	3. Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. Sorry this has taken so long - but I have FINALLY finished university! It’s been three stressful years, but it’s done. So now I have no excuses for updating fics so slowly than my own laziness. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Mike looked between them, blinking stupidly. 

“Well… wow. I wasn’t expecting that,” he said, looking down at their entwined hands. “How long have you…?”

“About ten minutes ago,” John piped in. He could feel the tips of his ears burning. “We bumped into each other in Russell Square.”

“Bumped into each other?” Sherlock repeated, gaping, though it wasn’t difficult to see that he was doing his best to contain a smile. John noticed with some warmth the way the corners of Sherlock’s eyes creased as the smile broke free and filled his face. “John walked over to me and started to bully me into going to the hospital.”

“You still need to go to the hospital,” John muttered, squeezing Sherlock’s hand gently. It was amazing how naturally comfortable he felt with Sherlock after only a few short moments of knowing one another. “And I will take you to hospital before this day is out.”

“You will?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sherlock. I will.”

Mike grinned, looking between them both. 

“I’ll leave you two to it, then,” he said. “You’re in good hands, Sherlock.” 

Mike chuckled as he turned away. Sherlock frowned, watching his retreating back.

“How can he say that?” He asked. “He hasn’t seen you since you were students. You could be a serial killer for all he’s aware. You’ve descended through friend, to acquaintance, and your relationship is now bordering on total strangers. He knows nothing about you anymore.”

John laughed. “Do you think I’m a serial killer?” He looked up at Sherlock.

“I’ve met serial killers,” Sherlock hummed, “you’re not one of them.” He let go of John’s hand and turned back towards the staircase. John closed the front door.

“Wait, you’ve met serial killers?” He asked, following Sherlock back up the stairs.

“Oh.” Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. Clarence House Cannibal, Stratford Strangler, Bethlem Beheader…”

John froze. 

“You met the Bethlem Beheader?!” He asked, incredulous. 

Sherlock chuckled and nodded, turning back around to face him. He was smiling, excitement overwhelming his face with such modest glee that for a brief moment John was scared that his soulmate was a complete psychopath, grinning about serial killers. As it was, Sherlock tugged on his shirt collar to reveal a fine silver line at the base of his neck, just before it greeted the shoulder. Without the context of the Beheader, John would have automatically assumed it was a hair or simply not noticed it at all it was that faint. He certainly wouldn’t have noticed it if he was still seeing grey.

John frowned, taking a step closer to study the scar. “You were a victim?” He asked, brows furrowed together as his fingertips ghosted the scar. Sherlock was surprisingly warm, and he smelt faintly of burnt tobacco. “Of the Bethlem Beheader?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“If I had been a victim, I would be dead and you would be a lonely man without a soulmate,” he replied.

John folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. Sherlock fixed his collar.

“I caught her. Well,” Sherlock tilted his head to the side and scrunched up his face, working through the technicalities. “I semi-caught her. Well, I caught her in the act but then she caught me and really it was quite a ridiculous situation.” When Sherlock realised that John was beginning to look more incredulous with each second, he sighed. “I knew who she was and I confronted her. I realised that each of her victims had connections to the armed forces.”

John nodded. “Yes, I know,” he said, still frowning. Sherlock wondered how often he actually smiled. “It was in all the papers. They interviewed people in my regiment. I was interviewed myself. None of us knew her, but we all followed the case. Every time a head was found it was all anyone would talk about at base, but I don’t remember hearing your name mentioned at all. Dreadful business though, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock watched John thoughtfully. He knew that John’s words had been repeated many times, and that he had much more to say on the subject. He smiled slightly, listening to John talk.

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock agreed. “Utterly dreadful.”

John looked up at him, trying to decide something though Sherlock couldn’t piece together what. 

“Fascinating, though,” John said. Sherlock grinned.

“Fascinating,” he agreed, nodding slowly. “Serial killers always are. There is something about gore and distinctly inhuman things which generate a fascination. There are those who turn away from violence and death, disgusted by it, but they suppress their natural, human curiosity in doing so. They’re scared of what they are, or what they have the potential to become.”

“And you’re the opposite?” John questioned. “You… enjoy murder? And violence? Serial killers and beheadings?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly.

“No. Well, who doesn’t love a good murder?” He sighed. “I enjoy the puzzles. Putting it together. Why did Mrs Jones kill Mrs Clark, and so on. How they did it? Even more so.”

John began laughing. Actually laughing.

“What are you?” He asked. “Some kind of a detective?”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, then offered his hand out for John to shake. 

“Consulting detective,” he said.

John shook it carefully, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m the one in the world. I invented the job.”

John raised an eyebrow. 

“A consulting detective…?” He asked, somewhat skeptic.

Sherlock hummed, smiling down at John, who was now shaking his head and smiling at the floor. 

“Okay, so where’s this flat we’re moving into, then?” John asked.

Sherlock paused. 

“You’re moving in too?” He asked, a bit surprised. 

John shrugged and nodded.

“I thought I was. I’ve been looking for my soulmate for years, I’m not about to lose them over the rent.”

Sherlock smiled. He cleared his throat. 

“Well, urm, it’s Baker Street,” he said, opening the taxi door. “221B Baker Street. I think you’ll like it there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was okay! I wanted to rewrite their first meeting, but around the same time it should’ve happened anyway. If that makes any sense at all. 
> 
> In other news, I am now unemployed! Not just furloughed, but unemployed unemployed, which is very bad news for my coffee obsession (amongst other things, but let’s just focus on the coffee). So, if anyone would like to contribute to buying me a coffee, I’ve set up one of those buy me a coffee thing :) 
> 
> https://www.buymeacoffee.com/indigospacehopp
> 
> Thank you! :)


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